What Lies You've Told
by plutospawn
Summary: It was weird to think that when most women fantasized about Prince Trian, Fran could only picture Leske's face when she imagined something so fundamentally male. For Sian Shoe's and Aimo's "Dwarves" competition.


"You're killing me, duster."

It felt good to laugh. Frannie Brosca's leathers were coated in a layer of salty dirt that would probably never wash out. Her mother would call her worthless, say she had no right terrorizing the merchant quarter, her sister would just sigh and attempt to clean the leathers while Fran slept. Still, the ache in her legs was from running and not a mortal wound, so Fran was soaking up the remnants of adrenaline coursing through her system. A half-broken chair at a less than legitimate tavern with Leske was really all she could ever ask for.

"...Or that one time, Beraht swung back and kicked your backside so hard that he fell over on his own arse?" Grinning so much was beginning to make her face hurt.

"Alright, alright, I get it. So I'm not quite the debonair rogue I think I am. But it's not so much what I think, duster, more what others think about me."

"What others think of you?"

"Well, what lies you've told them in my favor and how much they buy into it, I guess."

More raucous laughter. Fran's belly was full and her cheeks were warm with drink. The tavern chair she was on wobbled precariously beneath her weight and the lights were too dim to read the menu. It was a good end to a good night that could have always ended monumentally worse.

"Oh, you wanted me to lie for you?" she snorted. "So that's what I've been doing wrong all these years?"

Her partner on the opposite end of the table shrugged. "Well, not lie, necessarily, but focus on the important things."

She raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"You know," Leske said. "Like how handsome and virile I am and strong and courageous. Oh, and don't forget to mention my bronto-sized di-"

Fran laughed. "So now we're back to lying."

"You know, duster," he said. "You'd almost be cute if you weren't so damn ugly."

"Leske, you're lucky you're the last man on Earth."

His callused fingertips grazed her cheek and Fran could smell the stale ale and onions he breathed down on her. There was a creeping warmth up the back of her neck and she found herself staring at some random initials gouged out of the tabletop. The first few times it had happened, it had been great. She'd stumbled home with her vest unbuttoned, and her hair a sweat-slicked mess. Rica was livid, so overall, a job well done. But lately, things had been getting weird. She bent forward and gave Leske what was supposed to be a chaste, little peck on his lower lip.

"I should probably be heading back," she told him. Leske waved a dismissive hand. "Rica'll have my head if she's heard how much money I've wasted on this piss ale." Not that any of the spare coin she had would be spent on anything other than more moss-wine for their mother. She tried not to think about it.

His drunken eyes perked up at the mention of Fran's sister. "Hey, how is Rica doing, anyway?"

"She found herself another one." Fran shook her head. "But with all her hemming and hawing about it, I don't think she's put out, yet. Keeps saying it doesn't feel right or something."

"Maybe she actually has to like them first," he muttered to himself. "See something worthwhile in them."

She frowned. "He's probably just not rich enough."

"Yeah, maybe..." Leske's voice trailed off. "Hey, do you think Rica and me would ever...?"

"No," Fran said. "I don't."

"Yeah. Guess not."

"Rica's not your type, anyhow." She stood up and steadied herself on the slanted tabletop. "You just need someone dependable."

Leske grinned. "Willing, you mean?"

She shook her head. "Nah. Willing is good, I mean, but I meant someone who'll keep you in line. You know, keep you from eating an axe..."

Leske was at her side, with his arms locked around her waist as she stood. "Someone to darn my socks and knit booties for my babies, right?"

"No, I didn't mean that." Fran shoved him, but they'd played this game often enough for him to be a solid, unmovable support at her side. "Just someone cute enough to take out every once in a while, but not so prissy she'd look down on your work." She paused. "And she'd have to be willing to spit-shine the old bronto every once in a while."

Leske snorted. "Someone like you, you mean?"

Fran's mouth fell open. He was looking at her. Sticky, hot breath on her neck, his chin stubble grating across her cheek. His eyes were watery, drunk, and she wasn't sure if it was better if the pungent smell of sweat originated from her or from him. It was weird to think that when most women fantasized about Prince Trian, Fran could only picture Leske's face when she imagined something so fundamentally male. But she could bathe in his stink; lick it from the back of her palms and just bathe in it.

They both burst out laughing.

"Let's get you home, duster," he said as he began to drag her toward the door.

"Thanks, Leske." Fran reached up and gave a light tug on one of his braids. "Let's try not to do something really stupid tomorrow. Something that won't have the City Guard trying to break our kneecaps, okay?"

"Sure. Whatever you say."


End file.
